True Simple Love
by AliaAtreidesBr
Summary: The Joker has captured Catwoman/Selina Kyle, and he's making her suffer. And he wants Batman/Bruce Wayne to know all about it... How will this end?


_Hey, you guys!_

_This is an one-shot that I consider pretty heavy and f…ed up. Why? It has the Joker in it, that's why. _

_Because I had never written the Joker before – that had to be fixed. All I hope is that I did justice to him and his sick relationship to Batman. That's nothing to be proud of, but I wouldn't want to write this amazing character if I wasn't going to do it right. _

_I want to clarify that this is of MATURE content, ok? Be warned!_

_Finally, thank you for reading and, please, forgive my mistakes. Sorry about them, and it would be very helpful if point them out to me when you notice one. _

_Enjoy!_

_AliaAtreidesBr_

* * *

><p>This is how I love you, Batman, my sweetheart:<p>

Under the dark, dark sky, when all those little stars up there sing in glory… _Joker, Joker_, they scream. I hear them.

I thought, oh, well, it's time I give my dear, dear friend The Bats another gift. It's been so long since I've shown my appreciation. So long since we had had one of our pleasant meetings, such a long time since we danced our dance, since you filled my heart with pure joy.

Precious Batsy… you, you and your darling anger, your powerful rage. You, your strange morality, your unbreakable rules. They are so much fun.

Those are the little things we live for; our moments together, our meaningful exchange of glances… You: hate. Me: love. Love _for_ your hate, deep satisfaction in realizing, oh, in understanding how important I am for you. How much you need me – admit it, sugar… without me, life would be _so_ boring and pointless, without purpose.

I give you what you need: things to worry about. Something, someone to pursue. The pleasure of punching and hurting like there was no tomorrow… though you never quite _get_ there, right? You've never reached that one point… where you'll regret it. The one day, the about-to-come day when you'll finally _do it._

We'll get there. No worries.

* * *

><p>I'm paying for being <em>stupid<em>, that's what I can't stop myself from thinking.

I know why he's doing this, I do. It's not about _me_, of course; it's all about you.

He tells me that while it's all happening.

How I got here? I try to remember. It's been a few days, you know? Something dumb, a pathetic little trick that involved a staged rape and gas. How _old_. And yet, how effective.

It must have been four, no, five nights ago. Right? Or maybe less. Or more. I'm not sure. There were drugs, you know? And periods, maybe long, maybe short periods of time in which I was out. I can't be sure.

I don't _wanna_ be.

That's because I don't want to think about you, of course. I don't want to ask myself where you are, or if you will ever come.

And I don't wanna give up, Bruce. I really don't.

* * *

><p>I found the tape at her apartment, and I don't want to go into that obsessive chain of thinking in which I found myself wondering unstoppably why the hell I didn't go there sooner.<p>

It's a videotape, and this fact by itself is something to consider. He knows, of course, that I don't have the equipment to watch it here, or even in the car. An old thing, that's all, but that's his message – he thinks we have _history_, and that's what he needs to tell me.

That's why he went after her. Because she has also been around me for so long – almost as long as he has. And he knows I care. He knows he is the one I hate the most, and she's the one I love the most. I have been dumb enough to let him realize this.

A damn videotape. The black plastic, sticky as I touch it. Bloody. I smell it even before taking it, and I know. I know it's real. I know it's hers. Because he never plays like that, he doesn't want to terrorize me by scaring me. He wants to shock me, that's what this son of a bitch wants.

And he so often succeeds.

I get the tape. It's in my hands. I'm standing inside her apartment, this thing in my hands, and I know what to do. I know. Whatever I need to know so I can find him will be shown to me in this film – and, oh, God, I wish with all my heart I didn't have to see it. I'm standing inside her apartment, looking at her furniture, at her few pictures, and I can't help it: why, _why_ didn't I look for her sooner?

I know what's in this tape. I know.

But I have to get inside the car. I turn everything off: radio, videoconference, COM-link, everything. I drive. Just me, and my thoughts. Because I don't want anyone around, I don't want to explain, overanalyze, or to be consoled. I _know_ what I have to do; I know.

So I get to the cave in few minutes, and I don't call Alfred or any of the boys. It's just me.

No. It's us.

Us. _Him_. Her. And I.

I push play.

* * *

><p>He's filming this. Oh, God, he's filming this.<p>

I know why he's doing it, dear Lord, I know why…

He'll give it to you, Bruce. Oh, no, oh, my God… No.

Please, no.

I don't want you to see me like this. I don't. I thought I had no tears left in me, but… oh, no… no, I _do _have tears. I can't bear the thought, I can't, of you seeing me like this.

And I'm so stupid – I couldn't stop myself from begging him to not do it.

He knows about pain, he knows how to deliver it. He knows more: he knows just what to do to make you feel ashamed for what you're suffering.

Ah, he knows it too well.

He knows I always wanted you to think of me as strong – that's why he makes me scream. That's why he cuts and burns, and cuts and burns, and shreds me over and apart. And I swear, Bruce, I so did my best, I tried so hard…

But those screams came. Like he wanted to. And once the first cry came out of my mouth, I just couldn't stop it anymore.

Neither could he. He can't. He's a sick bastard that rejoices as I lose my breath while trying to keep some sanity, some sense of reality in this fucked up situation. He tells me he wants a smile, he wants me to smile to the camera, a smile… for you. It's all for you, he says.

Oh, Bruce. Please, don't watch this. Turn your eyes away, close them, burn this damn tape. Please, that's not how I want you to remember me…

I don't want you to see me beg…

I don't want you to see me ugly like this, ugly as he makes me for his horror show. All the ugly things he makes say, do… that he does _to_ me.

Because I'm done, Bruce. I'm over. I don't want you to save me. I don't want you looking at me like that… I couldn't bear your eyes. All the things in your eyes…

Oh, God, I hope you never get to watch this.

* * *

><p>When I'm finished with the tape, all I can think of is that the Joker is a dead man.<p>

Dead.

I picture my hands around his neck, and I picture my fists punching his face until it's nothing but raw flesh and shattered bones. I picture violence.

It was all he made me see for the last hour and a half.

Then I think of Selina. I think of the way he pictured her in that film, how he made me watch while he hurt her, and hurt her, and hurt her. How he humiliated her, violated her, tortured her in every sense of the word.

How he told her over and over that I would watch this tape, and the fear in her eyes as she heard him say that.

And I have done just that.

I realize now she never said my name. She didn't. I know she wanted to. I know she wanted so desperately to call for me, and maybe that would summon me, maybe that would have at least distracted the Joker from what he was doing…

Why, Selina, why didn't you…? Why didn't you do what he asked, why…?

Why did I do that to you?

I should have known better. I shouldn't have done that to you.

My God, the things he did. All those things… all those screams, your screams, your fear, Selina. Your pain. Dear God, so much pain.

What have I done…? No.

What will I do?

* * *

><p>I know you're coming, darling… I just know. I can <em>feel <em>it, sweet Dark Knight, your rage, your wish for revenge, the deep desire in your heart…

You want to _kill_ me, don't you?

Oh, I so hope so.

If only I could have been there when you opened my gift…! I wish I could have seen you face! I can picture it right now, the scene taken from a Christmas card: little Batsy watching that movie I made, watching as the plot unravels… all the cliff hangers I planned, just for you! "Will Catwoman die now?" "And how about now?" "Where will he cut her?" "How deep?" "Can she survive yet another round of shocks?" "Oh, no, the Joker wouldn't do _that_, that's too much even for him… oh, my God, he did it! What a heartless son of a bitch!"

Just imagining this makes me laugh unstoppably. Really, I literally can't stop…

Maybe it's because our friend Selina is so funny… what, you thought I didn't know her name? Oh, Batty, of course I _know_! I know so _much_, you would freak out if you knew how much I actually know… but that's beside the point. The point _is_, Selina and I – we rock together. I mean, _rock_. Sure, I guess her part is a lot easier than mine, all the damn filthy whore has to do is stay put while I work for the both of us, but still… she's part of the show, right? It wouldn't be half as fun without our dear Selina…

Though I don't think she will be able to _perform_ anymore. I mean, if there's one thing I know in this world are torture and mortal wounds, and lovely Selina is… well, knocking at heaven's door – I wouldn't bet anyone will answer in Heaven, though. Do you?

I guess it will be just you and me, darling… just us, dancing and dancing again, all night. Oh, how I anxiously wait for your strong hands searching for me, grabbing me, taking me to you…

Batman, sweetheart, this will be a glorious night.

* * *

><p>This is his final torture, I know.<p>

He abandoned me a while ago, just tying my hands above my head and letting me hang from the ceiling. Now I just bleed, from the many wounds all over my body, slowly watching as life leaves me…

I pass out, and I regain conscious again. And again. And again. Every time my head goes lighter, my word gets darker, I think it's the last. I think I'll be gone for good, and that I'll never see you again. I think "that's it, then", and it's not necessarily a bad thought – I'm hurt, Bruce.

I'm in pain still. That's what I remember every once in a while, when I'm not too numb or passed out. Fortunately, I'm not here _most_ of the time, I think. Most of the time, I'm either in the dark or…

Or you don't want to know. You don't. You don't need me saying how my mind drifts to old memories, and how often you show up there. You don't need to know that I've found refuge in strange thoughts of the future that will never be. You don't need yet another thing to feel guilty about: all that never happened between us.

It wasn't your fault, Bruce.

If there was a way, those are just the words I wish to say to you: _this is not your fault_. It really isn't, Bruce. _He_'s to blame, and maybe I should be also – I was dumb, reckless, overconfident and, let's face it, a former criminal. Joker knows too much about me, and most of it because I never cared to keep a low profile. It's not _you_. You are his victim, just as I am now. He _knows _it, Bruce. He knew it in every aggression; in each moment of pain he caused me… he knew you would be hurt too.

This is not your fault. Please. Please, all he wants you to do is to _regret_ it, Bruce. Regret the way you feel about me, wish you had never… we had never…

I don't regret it. I never will. Let him rip me apart, burn me alive, make me agonize and beg… I don't regret it. I won't. I'll never regret you in my life, or the few moments we had.

Though I'll never have the chance of telling you this.

Darkness is coming again. The world is blurry and unstable, and sounds are so far away… Maybe that's it. The end. The "no more, never again". I'm not scared, Bruce, not for me. I'm only scared for you… for what you will do… and feel…

It's not your fault, Bruce. Not… your… fault…

* * *

><p>I see her, hanging in ropes. Naked, wounded, abandoned in a corner of the room. <em>Selina<em>, I think. I want to call her, go to her. I want it desperately. I want to free her from those cuffs, tend her injuries, cover her painful nudity.

I want to console her, dear God, how I wish I could do that…

Is that even possible anymore?

He. He's between us. Joker, damn you, damn you, Joker!

It's you. _You_, Joker. _You_ did this. You took her. You took her, you did this to her, and all for what?

He's there. He laughs. His hysterical, sickening laughs, his crazy words, his psychotic smile. I can't understand, I don't really _listen_ to him. I'm moving in a way I've rarely experimented, I'm moving by instinct and rage, I don't think – I act.

I act as I finally take hold of his arm, and I break it in a single move. I act as I throw him on the floor, face first, and watch with pleasure his nose bended awkwardly and blood pouring from there, a few teeth precariously hanging from his gums. I act as I smash his knee cap with my boot, the crack of bones music to my ears. I act, I act.

Still he laughs. Louder and louder, a strange sound I try to ignore. What I c_an't_ ignore is my inner voice, the one that tells me that there's nothing, nothing I can do to the Joker that will give him even a fraction of the suffering he put Selina through. It's as simple as that:

He already won.

* * *

><p>Oh, my darling Batman… that's why I love you.<p>

Look at you _go_, going all the way, all-the-way!

So lovely.

You try to hurt me, I know. I see you try so _hard_! Those fists, sweet Batman, I have never seen them come down so hard and in such _hate_, so uncaring and, oh, so unforgiving! Look at you go…

That's why I love you, little Batsy-boy.

I can't help the laughs, I swear…! It's just so funny, so damn funny..! Oh, it's a pitiful, pathetic, yes – it's even better than I thought!

You roar, dear boy, you yell at me, you clench your jaws with such strength I can hear your teeth gritting… I rejoice. I rejoice at the taste of my blood, at the sight of your eyes... you have that look on you. That one – the one I rarely see, but that makes me so happy: your killing eyes, the look that scream _MURDER_, oh, how I love this…!

And then, I have to provoke you, don't I? It wouldn't be _me_ if I didn't, right? If I just didn't say sweet little things about how I tasted and experimented on our mutual friend, our dearest and late Selina… It wouldn't be me if I didn't share with you all the lovely thing she would say to me after our tender love-making…

It wouldn't be me if I didn't hit play and had her screams and squeals and howls of agony as our soundtrack, our cute love song.

I can see you loved this one. It shows in your features, especially as you kick me with all your might and tears come from this inscrutable mask of yours.

Okay, I confess: this is the _happiest _night of my LIFE!

Will you marry me, Batman my dear?

* * *

><p>I could kill him, and I would.<p>

She was dead, dead, lost, forever lost to me, and in that way…!

It's unbearable, excruciating, this business of hearing him talk. His words, his tone, his awful expression… he doesn't feel it, does he? I know he doesn't care how much I punch him, beat him up, he doesn't even care if I kill him right here, right now. I know this; I know.

I just can't stop myself from doing it.

All this, it's just a release. A moment I craved for so long, something that brings me nothing, nothing but the realization of the emptiness in my acts. There's no meaning in this, there's really no point – she's _dead,_ for Heaven's sake!

Or is she?

I see a move, or so I think I did.

I did. Nothing but a twitch, but this minimal sign is all I need to revive my hopes.

I dare to hope; it's foolish and probably vain, but I do hope. My heart races, and I drop this incapacitated, hideous human form from my grasp to the floor. Will _he_ die? I don't care. I don't care. I really just can't see anything else but this suggestion of movement, this small, shadowed beacon of hope.

Then it's my body, my own legs and feet that move under no command. They just take me there in few seconds; they take me to _her_ and to her tormented flesh. And I don't see how, but she is in my arms, she is, and I press her against my armored chest, I touch her cold cheeks with the unshaved, rough skin of my face, I kiss her bruised forehead with my own dry, scratched lips.

_Selina_, I whisper. No, I _plea_. I'm begging, begging, somehow… _be alive, please_, I say. It makes no sense, I know, but I say it anyway.

And you respond.

* * *

><p>Bruce, you fool.<p>

It wasn't supposed to be like that.

I wasn't supposed to wake up to you holding me, sheltering my broken body and then thanking God like you believe in him.

It wasn't supposed to be like that: I should be dead, free from the pain and from this life, from all the drama and the risks, from the suffering of this damn little world.

Nothing is easy, I guess.

I'm not dead. I'm still in pain. I remember what that son of a bitch did to me, and I remember it too well. Oh, Bruce, I wish I was dead, sometimes.

Not _all_ times, tough.

Not when you seat next to me, you in your chair, me in my hospital bed, and just hold my hand. _What now?_, I ask myself.

I never come up with an answer.

I know this, however: I should be dead. I'm not, and I'm going to live with what the Joker did to me all my life. This is _hell_, Bruce.

But it's hell by your side and, frankly, I'll take this over that "peaceful death" any day.


End file.
